THIRTY-ONE

I watched him across the room. Finally I asked, “Why are you here?”

His mouth twitched again. “Henry spoke of you often.”

“But why now?”

“I had to trust someone.” He looked down. “You see, we were together that night. The only person Henry killed was himself.”

“Oh, my God.”

“You see how it is, then.” He said it almost tenderly.

“Yes,” I murmured. “I see.”

He walked to a chair in front of my desk and grasped it. “I could have come forward. But he knew how afraid I was. I’m a banker in Anniston, with a wife and three teenagers who know nothing of this. I couldn’t face becoming a different sort of man.”

For a long time I just looked at him. “How did it happen, you and Henry?”

“We found each other, that’s all. For two years I thought I loved him. But not enough.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I was too hurt.”

“Hurt?”

His eyes were small and tortured. “Before the night she was killed I hadn’t seen Henry for over two months. When he called I scrambled for any excuse to get away. We were together all night. At six o’clock I got ready to sneak out. Henry took my hand and began talking very fast. He couldn’t see me anymore, he said. He loved me, I should never doubt that, and this was for my own good. I was shocked. Why, I asked him. He kept shaking his head and saying he was sorry, that he’d wanted us to have one last night and could I understand that. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, there was no reason and he looked so miserable. I wanted to stay and make him tell me why. But,” he smiled bitterly, “it was nearly morning and getting light outside. I drove away.”

I ran a hand across my face. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated. “Calvin Bayles.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“No.” Bayles’ face seemed almost to decompose. “I called him when I read about his wife. I asked if he was all right, if things were too hard. He said no, that you were helping him. I hardly listened. What I really wanted to know was whether he’d exposed me to the police. I hung on the line, afraid to ask and afraid to hang up. He knew. ‘Don’t worry, Calvin,’ he said, very quiet, ‘you’ll be all right, too.’ Then he hung up. I almost cried. But after that I didn’t talk to him until the night he died and then I let him down again.”

Bayles’ fingers were white on the chair. “Look,” I said. “You’re not alone in caring for Henry, or deserting him. Just tell me.”

He gave me a strange pitying look: sadness and community and comprehension. “This last will hurt you, too.”

“Then that has to be.”

Bayles’ voice was raw. “The night he died, Henry called me at home. He’d never done that before. I took it in the den so no one could hear. I was angry at him for calling there but when he began talking his voice trembled so much I forgot that. He said that my name might come out now, that he couldn’t help it anymore, but we were all tangled up in things at the bank he couldn’t explain. I didn’t understand any of it. Please, I begged him, please protect me. He said he’d tried to, that he’d called you, but you hadn’t called back and probably weren’t going to and he had nowhere else to turn—”

“Oh, Jesus …”

“‘Do anything,’ I told him. ‘Please, anything else at all. Please, if you love me.’ For a long time he didn’t answer and I thought maybe he was crying. Then he said, ‘Forgive me,’ and the line went dead. The next day I saw his picture in the evening paper. He was gone.”

We faced each other across the desk. Bayles said hoarsely, “I pushed him to it. I was his last chance and he shot himself to save me.”

I closed my eyes. “Why tell me this now, when he’s dead?”

“You were part of it, too. I want you to know what I did.”

My eyes opened to his strange expectant look. “For what? To share the guilt? I’ve earned that. But you’ll have to find absolution somewhere else. I don’t qualify to give it.”

He flushed. “That’s not what I want. You can decide whether the police should learn what I’ve told you. Henry’s dead, I know. But if it will help clear his name I won’t run from him anymore.”

I shook my head angrily. “I won’t play God. You passed that buck to Henry and he’s dead. I won’t decide for you what kind of a man you are.”

He shrank back. “Please …” The word died on his lips.

“God help him,” I mumbled.

His shoulders sagged. “I loved him.”

I turned away. “Go home,” I finally said. “I’ll do what I can. Just go home.”

He was crying now, his “thank you” close to a whisper. He paused as if searching for other words, found none, and shuffled to the door. He turned there with a last silent look of pity and thanks and then disappeared into the long corridor. I listened until his footsteps made no sound.

The firm was almost empty now. The receptionist had left and the phones had stopped ringing. Two silent janitors drifted by like ghosts with dustmops. I sat motionless.

After a long time I reached in the drawer for my father’s darts. I threw them mechanically, retrieving and throwing again until my mind was washed blank. Then I sat back and reviewed everything I knew about Lydia’s murder, and everyone involved, from the beginning. When I finished my hands were shaking.

I held them in front of me until they stopped. Then I picked up the telephone and called Clayton Kell.